


Half-Sick of Shadows

by starsoverhead



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 20:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsoverhead/pseuds/starsoverhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer Reid and Aaron Hotchner meet in a nightclub in 1800s Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine this taking place in the same universe where Moulin Rouge takes place. More will make sense then.

He had stepped into a world that he had never even imagined.  How he’d assented to this, Aaron would never quite know, but a part of him couldn’t regret it.  The dance hall was alive with colour, the paint bright - vibrant murals and brilliantly red walls, gilded and shining, lit by the gaily burning gaslights.  For a moment, he wondered at the gaslights instead of electric but he knew that, even in this scale, burning gas was cheaper than electrifying a building.  
  
The hall itself was loud with music, conversation, and dancing and the distraction of the gaslights had only helped for a few scant moments.  His reality was a swirl of colour and sound that was heady atop the absinthe he’d been plied with without his true consent and it was suddenly difficult to catch his breath.  He’d known Lucas Van Doren had the reputation of wild entertainments, but he had never imagined just how wild.  The man was summering in France and, as his solicitor, he’d been asked to come along.  They had just brokered quite the deal in buying some fractious competitors - thus making Van Doren’s already considerable pockets even deeper.  There were still details to consolidate and, as far as Aaron had known, that was his purpose in coming.  
  
Tonight, though, his client had insisted that Aaron accompany him in a celebration.  “Have fun, old boy.  It’s about time you enjoyed yourself!  The evening’s on me!”  
  
“That’s very generous, sir, but you don’t have to—”  
  
“Your wife wouldn’t want you to live life like a monk after her passing, boy.  Go, enjoy — whatever you want, drink or dance, skirt or waistcoat, be damned if I care.  And don’t come to my room later, for both our sakes.”   
  
His valet had dressed him in his finest suit, all polished black and starched white, and now he stood in the midst of a kaleidoscope of skirts, petticoats, and paintings.  It was a far cry from the world of dark wood and paper that he had known all his life and his emotions were split between fear and excitement.  
  
This hall didn’t have the best reputation and that was obvious to him in what he was now watching.  How the women pressed against the men, their skirts lifted and tossed about, petticoats ruffled and dyed in all colours, how some had necklines so low he could swear he saw the shade of their nipples past the decorative lace.  
  
His cheeks were red and not only from the alcohol.  The place had his blood running hot and his pulse tangible at his neck beneath the high and prim neckcloth the valet had carefully tied in place before Aaron had departed on this ill-advised adventure.  He tugged at the knot with a gloved hand but found a set of long fingers already there.  
  
Looking up, Aaron was caught by a pair of nearly amber eyes looking back at him, smiling warmly.  “It does get a little warm,” the man said, a glimmer of amusement obvious in both eyes and smile.  “Let me get you something cold to drink.  We wouldn’t want you losing your head.”  
  
He didn’t even have time to stop him or to say a word.  He knew it would be another charge on his client’s bill and, turning to apologise, he found his client with one of the can-can girls astride his lap, laughing with the man’s face buried in her cleavage.  Apparently this was what he’d planned.  As if sensing Aaron’s helpless gaze on him, Mister Van Doren waved him off.  The man snorted with laughter as the girl in his lap both giggled and jiggled enticingly.    
  
“Sir—”  
  
“Aaron!  Are you allergic to enjoying yourself?”  
  
It was a question he had no chance to answer.  Van Doren was leaving, girl on his arm, and another soon joining him - disappearing off into the shadows.  To his room, Aaron supposed, leaving him, behind.  This was not the kind of place that solicitors went.  This was the kind of place that hedonists went, and he was no hedonist.  He was a very proper solicitor, so perhaps he just needed to find out how to uncheck his hat and coat so he could return to the hotel.  As soon as he thought it, the plan was cemented in his mind.  A nice, sensible plan unlike his assent to this evening of celebration—  
  
But just then, a hand slid over his shoulder with fine glass that smelled of sweetness and tart.  Lemonade?  And there were those smiling amber eyes again.  “Well?” he asked just so he could be heard over music, dancing, and shouts of enjoyment.  “Are you allergic to enjoying yourself?”  
  
Staring, his hand grasping the glass without conscious thought, Aaron realised he was utterly mortified.  This young man - this beautiful, tall, slender young man - had seen him staring.  Had seen him unable to look away as they’d arrived and as he’d stood to the side, greeting guests with a handshake and a welcome to the interior of the building with its gilt and glasswork, with its music and petticoats.  He’d watched him, had been unable to speak as his hand had been shaken, and now, as if the world were paused, he remembered how he’d met those eyes before and how he’d felt as if a fist had struck him in the stomach with the realisation that the part of his life that had included desire hadn’t died with his wife and son in childbirth.  
  
But as a solicitor, perhaps as a solicitor more than any other profession, he knew the laws and he knew the consequences.  Yet in these dance halls, where one could run a bordello by only saying that it was a supper club and the girls were hostesses and the boys were bellmen, how could anyone know—  
  
“No,” he said, both in answer to the younger man’s question and his own train of thought.  He could not think of such things.  And yet, so close, he couldn’t not think of such things.  “No, I’m not allergic to enjoyment.  It’s… This is simply not the kind of enjoyment—”  
  
“Ah.”  He interrupted in a chuckle, sitting down nearby - close enough to speak, close enough to touch, far enough away that there was still a modicum of proper behaviour.  “You’re a proper gentleman, then, and not one to indulge in such pleasures as this place would offer.”  
  
Something in that tone made him feel such a snob that instinct had him denying before he could even find a reason, shaking his head, mouth opened and ready to speak but with no ready words.  His companion raised a single eyebrow and tilted his head just so, and Aaron was instantly caught once more with how the lamplight glittered in his hair and made it into a golden-bronze halo around his angelic face.  How did this man even come to such a fate?  “How is it a seraph came to be a creature of the underworld?” he asked, the thought bypassing all censors to be blurted, instead, on a breath.  
  
“A poetic question,” he was answered, and could only watch as his lemonade was taken up and sipped from there in front of him.  There was something in those eyes that had shuttered from him, though, with his thoughtless words.  “Even with the slight couched in a compliment.”  
  
“—My sincere apologies, I—”  
  
Raising a hand, the younger interrupted him.  “You spoke your mind.  It may not be flattering, but it was the truth.  Even if I don’t think it’s exactly the best way for you and I to get to know one another better.”  
  
That truth was closed off in his eyes, replaced with a learned teasing, and Aaron found himself a touch nauseous at the thought of it.  Whatever he wanted, this wasn’t it.  He smiled instead - an apologetic and rather sad smile, and shook his head.  “No,” he said quietly.  “I… thank you, but no.”  
  
And he stood, leaving his companion at the table as he worked his way past dancing girls, tempting waitresses, and revelers to find the entrance and his missing hat and coat.  The night was much cooler than the hall and he was grateful for that.  The cool air meant he could regain his thoughts and his senses and try to discern just why the teasing in those beautiful eyes had made him reject everything.  
  
——  
  
Cursing under his breath, Spencer finished the lemonade - it was going to be paid on Van Doren’s tab anyway, someone may as well enjoy it - and walked from the floor.  He’d been so sure.  He’d just known that he would land something worthwhile tonight.  At least a few bills under his belt, a bit to sock away and save, something to buy candles with.  He couldn’t have been so wrong.  The way the man looked at him was everything he’d seen time and time again.  Like water in the desert.  
  
And yet he’d just walked away.  Rejected him and walked away.  An insult.  Two insults in less than five minutes.  Had his ability to read intention so wavered?  No, it couldn’t be.  He’d had him hooked until…  Until what?  
  
He was very nearly growling as he stood outside, trying to cool his own heated blood so he could return to the floor and return to work.  No matter if his sure thing had turned out to be so unsure.  There was an entire crowd inside and surely not everyone was claimed.  Of course not, his mind told him, but none of them would be so handsome or so pure or so interesting.  
  
Anger flared inside him again and Spencer kicked the wall rather than scream.  None would notice, he was sure.  The music from inside was easily louder than his tantrum and the dark kept him from being visible.  He couldn’t afford to skip tonight, but unless he could quell this anger, he’d be good for nothing.  
  
But like the rising of the sun, he knew.  That was why he was so angry.  That insinuation.  ‘Creature of the underworld,’ the man had said.  Something dirty.  Something detestable.  Not even a person - no, a thing.  A creature.  No better than a stray cat, waiting to be kicked or drowned in some rain barrel.  
  
He was many things.  He was a dancer, a performer, and yes, he was a whore, but he was a person and to hear himself called a creature…  
  
Well.  That was one man’s opinion.  Able to pinpoint the reason behind his fury, he was able to smooth it into calm because, no matter what was said, he knew the truth.  He wasn’t something so easily written off.  So easily ignored.  He was a person, and there were other people who would pay well for his company.  
  
Pride steeling his spine, he walked back into the hall and glanced up, finding the suspicious gaze of Jean Legrande.  He nodded slightly in answer to the unspoken question and settled a smoldering twist to his lips.  The rest of the night would go smoothly.  He’d see to it.  If it didn’t, it would be Legrande he’d answer to and he’d had enough of those falsely concerned looks, the slow tallying of what he owed and what he’d paid back.  Amazing how swiftly one of those numbers went up while the other crept so slowly.  
  
He knew what he truly owed Jean Legrande and it was very, very little.  Slavery was illegal, and so was much of his job, but it was couched in a masquerade of propriety.  His official position in Legrande’s books was that of dancer, one of many used for the routines on the main floor when it wasn’t flooded with men (ever men - no proper lady would ever be within their walls) trying to slide hands up and between legs, to lay claim to this body or that for the night.  
  
It was time for him to rejoin that fray to see just who would be paying for him this evening.  With a momentary sigh, he placed his enticing look on his face, shifting his gaze over the crowd to see whose eyes alit on him with just the right kind of interest.  Please, he thought as he evaluated possibilities, let him at least be somewhat attractive.  He could make do with that after losing his real looker, but if the option was some red-faced portly man with nothing to recommend him but his wallet, he would sooner do without.  
  
“Busy?” came a warmed voice near his ear and with the usual sparkle in his eyes, he turned to smile at the man who interrupted.  Ah, he was in luck.  Older but still handsome enough, wearing a neat moustache and beard with just the lightest touches of grey in the black.  
  
“Not if you’re asking,” Spencer answered, and was led from the room with a hand firmly on his behind, quite content with the company he would keep until dawn.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn rose over the city of Paris, edging over rooftops until only the narrowest alleyways were without light.  Aaron awoke to the sound of people stirring below, the usual sounds of city life.  Hawkers and horses alike were making their way along the streets and Aaron breathed in the scents.  It wasn’t so different from home except for the language the street vendors used to advertise their wares.  His bed was comfortable and, as ever, empty but for him.  
  
For a few moments the night before he’d wondered if that would be the case.  For a few subversive moments in thoughts he’d barely acknowledged, he’d wondered if he would dare to accept what was there before him, on offer.  Sighing in the sunlight that brightened his bed, his mind caught once more on eyes that seemed like they belonged on some wild thing, one of God’s magnificent creations that roamed the forests and mountains and defied the taming of man’s hand.  Neither predator nor prey, but a spirit as free as the wind…  
  
Damn him.  Aaron scrubbed a hand over his face before resigning himself to daylight and climbing out of the bed, feet slipped into shoes that did little but keep him from stepping directly onto cold wood.  He couldn’t be afford to be distracted by the slip of a youth who made his life by drawing in men like him - men whose hearts were bruised or battered, or perhaps just too free to think of consequences.  That man filled his pockets from the temptation and teasing he could put into his eyes, just as Aaron had seen the night before.  
  
If only he could get that sight out of his mind now.  A sigh and a soft curse and he crossed to the breakfast that had been placed for him there in his room by some unseen servant while he had slept.  There was true work to be done.  Documents to be drawn up, agreed to, redrawn, signed, and sent.  He sent his mind along those routes instead, soon enough having broken his fast, dressed, and found his way to his desk there in the house where he was guesting.  
  
He spent the day using the perfect penmanship that had come to him through years of writing precisely as he was doing.  Many used typewriters anymore, and while there was something to be said of their precision, there was little of the same caring in a document produced by a typewriter.  When one was written by hand, it spoke of attention to detail and thoughtfulness, that each word was carefully produced by a living hand, drawing the pen so carefully across the paper.  It was a matter of pride and, as such, it didn’t surprise him that he worked until sunset with barely a break at noon to eat a bit so as not to grow tired and distracted for the rest of the day.  
  
Each letter of each document was perfectly formed, placed, and researched.  Each document left no loopholes.  Aaron had taken every inch of possible care because, had he let his attention wander even for a moment, he had remembered a halo of soft hair tinted gold, a pair of eyes unlike any he’d even imagined, and a smile that he wished with all his heart was real.  
  
All the more reason to work, to place his mind to work and only to work.  Perhaps it was only that he was now ready to move on.  It had been years since his wife’s passing and, though he’d been pushed to wed her sister, he couldn’t.  He had felt for her, but the love of a family instead of the love he felt should be between a man and his wife.  And after seeing the death of his son, he had no want to bring another woman to bear his child.  
  
But now, after seeing one pair of beautiful eyes, all he could do was sit behind this loaned desk and imagine.  Imagine seeing him again.  Imagine that young man in his life.  Living in his house, coming to him, smiling, asking him to leave the office and come sit with him.  If they could read plays together in the garden, or ride into the country to stay at Aaron’s parents’ estate for a week or so.  Perhaps see a play or opera if something interesting were in town.  
  
It was frighteningly easy to imagine the excuses he could make.  A fast friend made while beyond his nation’s borders.  A confirmed bachelor and now Aaron a confirmed widower, ready to spend his life in brotherhood rather than seeking romance.  If handled just so, none would ask.  But he knew it for what it was.  A meaningless, wishful daydream of no import.  He had no stomach for a partner who would be with him only for what he could pay.  
  
If only he could tell his heart the same thing.  He had felt this same way about his wife.  Still in school then, he had had a single glance at her with her wide, bright smile, her sparkling eyes, her hair so bright as to be sunlight itself in poised but carefree curls all about her head and shoulders and his mind had been just as lost.  For days, all he could think about was the glance she had given him in passing.  Just a flash of brilliant blue eyes and he was hers.  He had asked any and all until he had learned her name and where he could find her.  And then, with a touch of courage, he had spoken to her.  Within the year, they’d been wed.  
  
The love between them never wavered, but there was a degree of contention as their marriage went on.  He became a partner of the firm.  His work load grew and time with her lessened.  All the while, both of them mourned how time and again, her body seemed to refuse to hold on to any child they made between them.  Doctors thought her barren until at last, the seed caught and swelled and stayed.  The months had passed with growing hope and at last, just when the doctors said she would, her labor began.  
  
Twelve hours later, her labor ended in blood that wouldn’t stop and a baby strangled by his own cord.  In one day, he lost wife and child.  He had been happy and hopeful and that was so swiftly dashed, heartbreak striking deep and anchoring inside him, and so it was for years.  
  
He had thought it would last until the end of his life, so sure he was that a man only got one true chance at love and once it was gone, it was lost forever.  That, he thought, may still be true.  This was not love.  This was infatuation.  And surely it would pass.  Between the legality and the fact that the man his mind couldn’t let go of sold himself each night, it would have to pass.  
  
That night, in his dreams, it did anything but pass.  His mind instead gave him expanses of smooth, pale skin on a slender body that arched under his touch.  Of long-fingered hands that touched him in places that he’d barely thought about since his wife’s death.  He awoke hot blooded and frustrated with his own desires.  So it was, morning after morning until one evening, with a hiss of defeat, he had his valet dress him in his formal suit once more and struck out to that particular dance hall where he knew his own compunctions would be at least partially forsaken.  He was a man of great patience, but even he could only take so much.  
  
Aaron was being haunted by memory and imaginings and only one of those two were true.  Tonight, he would buy that young man’s time and at least put himself out of his misery when he learned that reality was just as he feared, or if he learned differently…  
  
If he learned differently, God save him.

Once more, his hat, coat, and cane were checked at the door though tonight, he was there alone.  There was no saving grace of the Van Doren pocket, and he knew at least one of his expenses would likely be quite steep.  There was no reason for him to worry about his money.  From his own savings and his wife’s dowry now in his name, he was quite well off.  Not so well as Van Doren, but enough so that if he dared cling to a kernel of hope, he had that leeway.  
  
So he entered the swirl of lights and dancing, waving away drinks as he settled at a smaller, out of the way table, and sought the amber eyes that had been ever in his thoughts for more than a week now.  When Aaron spotted him, it wasn’t the eyes he saw.  No, it was the legs.  Long, elegant, in perfectly fitted pants that hugged the curve of his hip, flattered the length of his thigh, and draped over the lap of another man.  
  
He laughed, he smiled, and Aaron felt a stab of jealousy turn his blood first to ice and then to fire.  Rationality reminded him that he had walked away.  He had left this man behind and as such, he had no claim.  But nights and nights of dreams told him otherwise.  Even if he was at war with himself, he knew that he would have to give in.  At least once, he needed that - but how could he steal such a fine specimen from someone who obviously at least made him smile and laugh?  That was more than Aaron could do.  His life had gone on while Aaron’s had been at a standstill.  
  
Rings glittered on his patron’s hand.  Gold.  A hint of jewels.  While only news reports from far away and hints of rumour had drifted to his ears, he felt his hackles rise - protective for a reason he didn’t dare say aloud.  Instead, he stared and tried not to glare until he saw the object of his visit stand, two empty glasses in hand, and stood as well.  They were almost of a height and slightly taller than most of the rest of the crowd.  All the easier for Aaron to follow him as he walked away toward the bar.

His eyes traced the lithe form.  Long legs to narrow hips, elegant fingers delicately holding the empty glasses.  It was as if the crowd parted for him.  For them both, truly, as he followed unimpeded, not so close until his quarry (a term he hated even as he thought it) was standing at the bar, elbows crossed on its surface and a carefree smile on his face.  
  
Aaron thought his bravado might have left him there but he knew, if he did nothing, he would spend his next full week remembering that smile and cursing himself as a coward.  The decision was made for him, though, as the young man turned.  
  
His brows rose appreciably as he looked Aaron over and again Aaron could see that part of him close off.  It seemed he was the only one for whom absence had made the heart grow fonder.  He cleared his throat softly, crossing the few steps between them.  “I’ve come to ask three things of you,” he said, his voice soft and polite as ever.  He was known for his ability to stay calm.  It was why his own client list grew so large.  “Your name, your forgiveness, and your time.”  
  
The look he got in answer was caught somewhere between a smirk and a smile.  “And, sir, only two of those are free,”  
  
“I’ve come prepared,” he promised, starting to reach into his jacket for the money that had come with him, but his hand was forestalled.  
  
“Not here.  But with your money so ready, Signor Rossi will just have to be disappointed.  Now?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“My name is Spencer,” he was told, and then he was led away after the young man - now known to be Spencer - spoke to the man behind the bar and nodded in the direction of the table he’d come from.  Aaron hadn’t expected it to be so easy, but he supposed money spoke more than words in a place like this.

Away from the dance floor, away from the tables where people drank freely of more than alcohol, there were hallways of rooms that stretched in what seemed to be every direction.  Gaslight sconces regularly dotted the wall, illuminating wooden panels and long rugs that padded the flooring.  He quickly judged the hallways to encircle the main room, leaving no escape from the music though it was at least muffled with doors and walls between them and the source.  And somehow, his hand was clutched in Spencer’s before he found his shoulders against the wall, lips slanted over his in a rushed kiss.  
  
“Is this what you want?” murmured the voice that had echoed through his dreams.  There were hands sliding over his arms and it was like his subconscious mind was there before him, giving him the body he’d wanted, but it wasn’t right.  As gently as he could, he fought against those hands, setting Spencer away from him.  For a moment, he saw the confusion overtake the expression of lust that had been on his face.  This, Aaron knew, wasn’t the reaction he usually got to such a heated welcome.  
  
“I want to buy your time,” Aaron answered, reflexively licking his lips.  Spencer tasted of brandy and something more that he had no name for.  “Your time,” he repeated.  “Not your body.  Show me to the room we’ll have tonight.  We’ll talk there.”

The confusion remained, and Aaron was actually gratified to see it.  “You’re a confusing man, sir,” Spencer said, but guided him onward and into a room that was smallish but lavishly decorated.  A bed, a sitting area, a window that couldn’t boast much of a view, curtains in dark, sheer blue that sparkled with small crystals that were supposed to look like diamonds.  To Aaron, it was obvious that they were paste.  The bed was draped in velvet, the cushions plentiful and in all shapes, but the room offered no fireplace.  Perhaps, he thought wryly, the occupants were expected to keep one another warm.  
  
He seated himself on one of the chairs there in the room, gloves tugged off, before asking, “To buy your time tonight, how much?”  
  
“Is it so important?  I’ll make it worth the cost.”  
  
“It is important.  If tonight goes well, I may buy your time for the rest of the summer.  I’ll need to know how much I’ll be giving to you.”  
  
Some things couldn’t be hidden and the prospect of so much money given to him elicited a widening of the eyes, a momentary opening of his mouth — inelegant.  Honest.  Aaron had to wonder what the precise thoughts were that went through his mind.  Were there debts he needed to pay?  Opportunities he would pursue given the wherewithal?  Would his gratitude be enough to keep him at his patron’s side?  
  
Could Aaron live with himself if that was the only reason?  
  
“Let’s talk,” Spencer said at last, sliding into the chair opposite, with a tone unlike any Aaron had yet heard from him - and it made him smile.  Whomever this man was, he was now speaking to the real person.  Not the studied coquette.


	3. Chapter 3

Spencer hated the hopes that surged in him.  A sum like that, one that could buy his company for an entire summer - it would pay off all of his so-called debts.  He would no longer be under Jean Legrande’s thumb.  And while he would have little to recommend him elsewhere, at least he would be able to start fresh with a name made for himself as a dancer if nothing else.  With that name, he could surely find a place in a more reputable venue.  
  
This, before, him, was an opportunity - yet he wondered.  With a cynic’s snarl to his thoughts, he wondered.  “What would you expect of me?” Spencer asked.  “You say you want to buy my time.  Why?”  
  
“Do you ask that of everyone who comes to you?”  
  
One simple question and Spencer felt like he had been set back.  It was true.  he didn’t ask everyone - but his reasoning came to him swiftly.  “You buy something they don’t,” he countered.  “Here, I have protection.  I have safety.  If you buy me for a summer, what of that do I have?”  
  
“You would have the safety of the home where I’m staying.  I can offer no more of my host’s rooms than he’s given to me, but you would have the bed to yourself.  I can sleep as well elsewhere.  If you wished to go to an entertainment, you would have my company, and I am no small protection.  I want nothing of you that you wouldn’t voluntarily give.”  
  
Spencer snorted.  The proposal was too good to be true, and he’d learned to mistrust that sort of thing years and years before.  “So you buy a whore for everything but sex?”  
  
“You can say no,” the man reminded him.  “If you find my offer so distasteful, then please - please, do say no.  I want nothing of you against your will.”  He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a fold of bills - smaller than the sum he’d near-promised for the summer of his time, but more than enough for one evening.  He passed a few of them to Spencer and Spencer stared at them in his hands.  Still more than enough, but by less of a stretch.  For a moment, he wondered if he was selling himself cheaply, if this was what this man usually paid his whores, or if the man was so seldom on the market for flesh that he didn’t know what price who might ask.  
  
“If you say yes, come at any time this week, during business hours, of course, to the office of Van Doren Importing and Dry Goods with whatever protection you want.  I will hire a carriage from there and we’ll return here to gather your belongings to move you into my rooms.  If you do not come this week, I will consider your answer to be no and I’ll no longer disturb your dealings with the Italian downstairs.”  
  
And with his piece said, Spencer saw in the corner of his eye that he moved toward the door of the room but Spencer stood, stopped him with his voice.  “You know my name.  I would have yours.”  
  
“Aaron Hotchner,” he was answered and, after a moment of eyes meeting eyes, the man left as if what he’d offered hadn’t been earthshaking in the least.  
  
The money in his hand was enough that, if he wanted, he could spend the rest of the evening in his rooms and still have a profit to show LeGrande when he came for the evening’s take.  He could return downstairs, though, and spend another evening at Signor Rossi’s side - have even more to hand over - but if he continued in that vein, would he ever actually see freedom?  Would an offer like this ever come again?  
  
He slumped into the chair he’d been sitting in, legs extended before him like a rag doll’s, splayed and kneeless.  The chair, at least, was comfortable and solid, new fabric hiding the old, marred upholstery.  Fresh paing to hide the cracks.  One didn’t become profitable by paying for new when the old could be touched up, made to look as if it were new.  A lesson learned and learned well thanks to the man who practically owned him.  
  
He’d been unfair to him, Spencer thought.  Jean Legrande wasn’t a tyrant.  He was a businessman but not some petty owner of a fiefdom with all of them as his servants.  In truth, he owed the man his life.  Without him, he would’ve died alone and starving on the streets, chilled to the bone and ignored by those who passed by.  He could still remember his first sight of Jean Legrande and how amazed he’d been that a man dressed with such perfection could be paying any sliver of attention to him.  
  
The orphanage he’d been tossed into after his father’s departure and his mother’s being locked away had been little more than a workhouse for indigent children.  He’d run away at first chance, terrified of the adults and other children alike, and had found himself on the street with little hope but to try to beg for enough money to feed himself and drink from rain barrels.  Pure luck had kept him from getting ill before Legrande had found him.  
  
Dark suited with keen, brightly blue eyes, Legrande was the gutter’s own entrepreneur.  No older then than Spencer was now, he had seen through the grime and detritus on his young face and had seen that there, before him, was a supply that his audience would demand.  Legrande had thought him no better than any of the other guttersnipes he’d picked up along the way, girl and boy alike - ignorant, uneducated, no better manners than a pig - and Spencer had never told him of his father’s career as a solicitor or his mother’s as a teacher.  His mind was keen and, even without the smarts that came from ages spent on the streets, he knew that keeping some things to himself would be wise in the future.  
  
He’d learned from being around Legrande.  He’d learned about market and cost and though he had at first had little use but to go out and pick pockets or spread subtle word about Legrande’s dance hall (which had actually much improved in the intervening years), when his adulthood had begun to creep up on him, he’d quickly learned what else would be expected of him.  Better, he’d been told, that he learn at the hand of someone he knew and trusted than merely to be flung into a customer’s bed and learn with pain as his companion.  He’d been taught how to make sex pleasurable - not only for his customer but for himself.  The use of oils, the ways to tease, the way to make it seem like he was interested when he was far from it.  
  
Spencer, Jean had told him, was far too pretty to only be a bellman or a waiter.  Even if he wasn’t trained, the customers would see him and expect him to be available.  At least now, he would know what to do - and the money he earned, well, of course that would be greater and he’d pay off his debts faster if he took clients in every way.  And he did have debts.  
  
Snarling to himself, Spencer stood and stalked across the room.  He remembered seeing the ledger with his name written inside the cover and the numbers in such careful columns, noting every expense - every meal, every bit of soap, every change of clothes and blanket, his portion of the night’s fuel spent to keep him warm.  Everything had been totalled and was expected to be repaid.  There were subtractions, though, among the additions.  Each bit of profit he’d brought in was fairly written - but he had cost more than he had brought.  Taking clients to bed had been the first way he had seen those numbers begin to go down in any significant way, but still the total was large.  
  
The older he’d gotten, the more money he’d cost.  The doctor took his share, as did the tailors, the kitchens, weavers for the fabrics that decorated each room - and then there were the furnishings that had been gotten just for him after he had, in a rampage, broken tables and chairs.  
  
His own fault, that part of the debt.  A part of his despair and part of the curse of opium that he’d been in thrall to.  He’d been so close, and then he had broken an entire room from ceiling to glass when told of just how serious his problem was.  He’d refused to believe and only after being shown lines of unwavering ink did he see what damage he’d done to himself.  His haunted look had drawn few customers and he hadn’t cared.  And then that rampage…  
  
This was his only chance.  But did he dare to leave this world that he knew so well to step into an unknown and unpredictable future?  With his knowledge, he would do well as an accountant.  As well as anyone, though he would have to learn the true legalities of the practice.  
  
Traitorously, his mind told him that under the care of a solicitor, what better way would there be to learn such details?  Gainful employment, perhaps, after one summer spent — And surely the man would offer him no true life-threatening danger.  But the possibility of spending a life so prosaic after at least the shadowed gleam that he’d lived until now…  
  
The window glass was cold against his forehead, the wood of the sill so slightly rough under the heels of his hands.  He could hear the music from downstairs, feel it through the wall, and he wondered at a life without that feeling.  Without being constantly surrounded with people resigned to the fate he rebelled against.  He hadn’t been born to be a creature of this underworld.  
  
He was still there, caught and thinking, as the crowds trickled out, others already ensconced in the rooms around his.  The moans and sighs, both feigned and true, whispered through the walls and he removed himself from the window to lay, instead, fully clothed, across his bed.  There was so much to consider.  For the first time in so long, his mind felt full, and he wasn’t sure if sleep would ever come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Text and references taken from Parliament of Fowls by Geoffrey Chaucer and The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

“Tell me one of your poems, Spence.”  The door closing behind her, Penelope walked into the room with all the ease she ever had.  One woman among many, she was as beautiful as were all that Legrande chose to pull under his wing.  Her blue eyes were bright and cheerful, golden hair lending itself to playful curls.  Her curves were ideal for her corset, hips wide, bust impressive, and yet it was her personality that had made them fast friends.  Another reminder, he thought, of what he would leave behind if he took the money that was offered him.  
  
She was the type for whom boundaries didn’t exist.  A closed door was simply waiting to be opened and for her to make the space inside her own.  Yet she did it with such kindness and such love that none ever felt offense at her approach, even him in this time of contemplation.  
  
He thought he may have slept now and then through the day and had done as expected of him the night before.  The Italian, Signor Rossi, had been just as welcoming as the days before.  Overall, the night had been full and pleasant enough, but ever in the back of his mind had been the offer that Mister Hotchner had given him.  The sincerity, the truth - and yet, he doubted.  He could do nothing but doubt as he had learned so many years before that nothing so good ever came without a cost.  What, he wondered, was the cost here?  What was the cost now?  
  
Looking away from the outdoors, Spencer turned his gaze to Penelope instead.  “They’re not my poems,” he corrected, sitting at the window as the shapely woman draped herself across his bed, knees bent and feet waving in the air as she thoughtlessly adjusted her dress over her cleavage.  She was nibbling on some cheese she’d brought in with her and, not for the first time, Spencer envied her.  Anytime he dared to eat the smallest bit of cheese, his stomach rebelled against him, leaving him ill for the rest of the night.  
  
But Penelope sighed and looked at him, at his troubled face, and Spencer looked back at her with a small and apologetic smile.  “I know how you like them.  Which one do you want?”  
  
Her eyes were keen - as ever.  Even while he looked at her, he knew she knew more than she’d let on.  “Tell me which one’s closest on your mind.”  
  
“Whether you like it or no?”  
  
“I’ll like it because they all take me to some other place,” she answered, giving him a smile.  A sincere and honest smile that put a sort of longing in his gut.  She loved so easily and so well that all he hoped for her, ever, was the warmth in live that she deserved.  The place seemed to suit her, though.  Dancing, flirting - she lit a room more brightly than any light, lit by gas or lit by electricity.  But to think that she wished for some other place?  Maybe he wasn’t the only one with such discontent.  
  
There was nothing for him to do, then, but speak - translating, as ever, the language of Chaucer into words that were easier to understand.  “For fear of error my wit could not make its choice, to enter or to flee, to lose myself or save myself. Just as a piece of iron set between two lode-stones of equal force has no power to move one way or the other — for as much as one draws the other hinders. So it fared with me, who knew not which would be better, to enter or not…”  
  
His voice trailed away, knowing the choice had been telling - and perhaps that was why he had chosen it.  To hear another’s thoughts and another’s perceptions would do nothing but to help him, much as Africanus had guided the narrator - and Penelope surprised him by going on with what he’d started.  “Your doubt stands written on your face,” she began, “though you tell it not to me.”  
  
“Pen…”  Spencer sighed and slid over to the bed, seating himself at her side with his heels propped at the edge, arms wrapping around his knees.  “Pen, we’re kept safe here.  If anyone gets too rough with any of us, Jean sees to it that they’re banned.  Thrown out into the streets, even, like your Derek does or like LaMontagne.”  
  
She rolled onto her back to look up at him, hand lifted to brush his cheek.  “What is it, pumpkin?  What’s on your mind?” she asked, her voice careful and quiet.  “I know you’re not upset at the safety, not after—”  
  
“Don’t,” he interrupted.  “Some things are best not thought about.  But you’re right, it isn’t the safety I worry over.  It… is the lack of it.”  
  
“There is no lack of it.”  
  
“For me, Pen, there could be.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” she challenged, sitting up and looking, upset and frowning, into his eyes.  “Spencer, nobody here is going to hurt you.  Remember how Derek bloodied that man’s face and blacked his eye for your sake?”  
  
“Pen…”  He turned, then, and they were facing each other, one unsure and the other pleading.  “Pen, I have an opportunity.  I have a chance.  You know that each day we work here, we pay off a growing debt to the man who brought us here.  Some of us - some, like you - flourish here.  This is your life, your love, your passion, but you know I’ve chafed at this.”  
  
Penelope nodded, a hand settled on his knee.  “You’re too smart for this place.  You always have been.  Too smart and too good at pretending not to be.  But how can you leave?  The debt…”  She shook her head, unknowing and confused.  “He’d be able to bring you back in less time than a heartbeat.”  
  
His hands wrung once more, his mind still in turmoil.  It was such a chance and such an opportunity.  If the man had just accepted the idea of sex, none of this would be so confusing.  Sex, he understood.  Sex was his business.  The idea of simply buying time, however, was alien.  “I was approached by a man who wants to buy a summer from me.  This summer.  Spent at the house of his patron, with him,” he answered.  “With the money that would cost, my debt would be paid off at once.”  
  
“Spencer!”  Suddenly all smiles and sunlight, Penelope flung her arms around him.  “Spencer, take it, go!  It’s your chance - your chance to have everything you’ve dreamed of!”  
  
“But without the safety, without the knowledge—”  
  
Penelope scolded.  “Spencer, this is your Sir Launcelot.  And if he’s here, you know that if anything at all happens, we’re only so far away.  You know we’d come to you and help you with just a word.  And besides, after the summer, pumpkin, then you could do anything you wanted.  Anything!”  Giving him a light shake, she grinned warmly at him.  “With your mind, there’s nothing that could stop you.  Whether you wanted to play your piano as you do or … Or start a business or anything!  Go, Spencer, and trust us that if you need us, we’ll be here.”  
  
Her enthusiasm was almost catching.  The spark of possibility, even with a touch of the unknown, had its allure, and with her encouragement, that allure was only magnified.  There was no reward without risk.  Yet what she had said put a chill in him as well.  The Lady of Shalott had died when she dared to look out of the shadows.  Would stepping out of his leave him in the same state?  
  
She hugged him tightly, almost to the point of too tight, his slender body held tight against her much more voluptuous frame.  “Go out there,” she murmured before setting him back and reaching to fluff his hair just so.  “Go out there and grab him with both hands and don’t let go until the summer’s done.”  
  
Spencer smiled, unable to keep from it, looking into her hopeful eyes.  It seemed his fate had been decided for him, but truly, it couldn’t be so bad.  She was right.  No matter what, the lot of them would be there to keep him from the worst so long as he sent word.  
  
Left alone to his work and his thoughts, he began to work at packing his few belongings.  He had no luggage, nothing to pack full but a few small bags and a satchel that had once been his father’s but was now his.  He dared not pack too much.  Only the things he had paid for from his own share.  They were few, but enough to fill his two soft-sided bags that he laid at his bed’s side before dressing himself in preparation for his next steps into his new life.  
  
——  
  
Aaron stood over his employer’s desk, explaining and demonstrating, tracing lines of text on the contract that was currently being worked through.  It was a first draft, rough and with words scratched out, other words written in margins to replace them.  So seldom was it that the business owner from across the channel came that few of the employees were precisely sure how to act, let alone how to approach the owner and the owner’s solicitor - thus Aaron was conscious of the young man from belowstairs lurking uncertainly at the door of the room.  He waited until all seemed to be settled before looking up at the young man with eyebrows raised.  “Yes?”  
  
“A man in the office, sir.  He asks for you.”  
  
His stomach gave a flip.  He had wondered if this would happen and yet now, the possibility was real.  With a nod, he stood, parted from the group with a quiet excuse, and followed the young secretary downstairs.  There, waiting for him, was his feral angel, dressed sharply in the latest fashion and looking at him with an expression that he could swear was more mask than truth in its calm.  “Leave us alone,” he said to the secretary and, with a nod, the man left the room.  
  
Quiet reigned for a few long moments as they looked at each other, as Aaron was vividly reminded of why he had done something so rash.  His heartbeat was nearly deafening in his ears, so inspired by the perfection that stood before him.  “Have you come to negotiate?” he asked at last and received a headshake as an answer.  
  
“No, sir.  I’m here to agree.”


End file.
